


a wolf at your door

by shineyma



Series: royals [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Kidnapping, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 14:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: It’s completely absurd, but Jemma’s first thought when she realizes she’s being kidnapped is that she owes Grant an apology.





	a wolf at your door

**Author's Note:**

> Amy finished a fic! Yay!
> 
> This isn't what I meant to write next in this verse - lots of people requested the first date, and I really meant to write it, plus I had some inspiration for some mid-relationship fluff - but the muse will have its way, I guess. This didn't go the way it was meant to, either. *shrug* What're you gonna do?
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

It’s completely absurd, but Jemma’s first thought when she realizes she’s being kidnapped is that she owes Grant an apology.

She thought him ridiculous when he insisted on assigning guards to her, and has started more than one argument over their interference in her life, but now…

Now, with Veronica sprawled in the doorway—

—with George thrown out the window—

—with Annika locked in a brutal-looking bout of hand-to-hand with three men at once, each easily twice her size—

—with Ethan falling right before her eyes—

—now, she finally sees the need. Not only that, she rather wishes she had more.

It’s only a passing thought, however, as she finally shakes off the horror that’s stilled her and tries to flee…tries being the operative word.

After that, it’s all a blur: a rough hand catches her arm, pain flares in her cheek as she’s slammed face-first into a cabinet, and then there’s a sweet-smelling cloth covering her mouth and nose.

_Chloroform_ , she thinks faintly, and then—darkness.

 

+++

 

The good news is that face-slamming aside, her captors are perfectly gentle with her.

The _bad_ news is that they’re also quite mad.

“Absolutely not,” is the first thing she manages to say, several minutes after her captor finished speaking. “I—no. Absolutely not.”

“Don’t you see?” the delusional man who introduced himself as Miles asks. “We’d be so much better off if you’d just—”

“Just _murder_ the man I love, who also happens to be our bloody _king_?” she interrupts.

“But he’s not supposed to be,” Miles says, leaning earnestly across the table that separates them. “If he hadn’t set that fire—”

“He did _not_ ,” she snaps.

“—Prince Christian would’ve become king,” he continues over her. “He interfered with the line of succession! That’s a capital crime; the proscribed punishment is death anyway.”

It’s honestly terrifying. To sound so reasonable while he speaks such nonsense…he’s obviously off his rocker, and there’s no telling what he’ll do when he finally understands that Jemma won’t be cooperating with his assassination plans.

“And then what?” she asks, half out of morbid fascination and half because she’s afraid to let silence linger too long. “Will you allow Thomas to become king? Or do you judge _him_ guilty as well?”

“He might be,” Miles says, frowning thoughtfully. “Or maybe not. Doesn’t really matter.”

“No?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and that same worryingly earnest cast takes over his features as he grins at her, “because the king’s death will present us with the perfect opportunity.”

She doesn’t want to ask. She really, truly doesn’t. “To do what?”

“To _end_ it,” he says intently. “To tear down the whole rotten system and build something new.”

Stunned silent and sick to her very stomach, Jemma sits back in her chair. Her head spins.

It’s not just assassination they’re planning, then. It’s a bloody _coup_.

Well.

She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, forcing herself to focus—to _think_.

When she does, it strikes her that the situation is actually somewhat optimistic. Their entire plan, or so it seems, depends on her: on the free, unmonitored access she’s given to Grant. Jemma alone is allowed in his presence without guards and welcomed in the royal apartments, and so Jemma alone is their only hope of pulling this off without significant losses.

Of course, the downside to that is that they’re unlikely to be happy when they finally get it through their thick heads that she won’t be cooperating. Miles clearly isn’t alone in his delusional, treasonous plans; at least a dozen people are crowded into the (eerily homey) kitchen with them, watching the conversation with eager faces, and there’s a disturbingly cultish feel to the whole affair.

They may have been gentle so far, but Jemma knows well how quickly anger can turn to violence, especially in such a large group. Refusal could—will probably—end badly for her.

If only she were capable of lying, she might play along—agree to help them in the hopes that it would see her turned loose, so she might flee to Grant and warn him.

Unfortunately, she’s a horrible liar. She can only be honest.

“My answer remains the same.” She folds her hands on the table and meets Miles’ eyes directly. “I will not be helping you murder Grant. Ever.”

Several of the watchers straighten. A few mutter. And for a moment, a terrifying level of fury takes over Miles’ face…but then it passes, and the earnestness returns.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I get it. You’re used to thinking of him as a good guy—as your king. You’ve been brainwashed by…”

Oh, not this again. She’s already been forced to sit through _one_ screed about the evils of their society; she really didn’t mean to start another.

Is it possible to die of boredom?

Perhaps her impatience shows on her face, or perhaps there’s just some signal she misses, but Miles (thankfully) cuts himself off in short order.

“My point is,” he says, “obviously you need some time to adjust to the truth and think this over. And that’s okay. You can have all the time you need.”

Jemma’s heart sinks. It rather goes without saying, she supposes, that she won’t be allowed to do her thinking at home.

“Don’t worry,” Miles says. “Unlike your king—”

“ _Our_ king,” she corrects, unable to help herself.

“—we’re not monsters,” he goes on, ignoring her. “We’re not gonna toss you in a cell or anything.”

He pushes back from the table and stands. By his expectant stare, he’s obviously waiting for her to do the same, but Jemma is in a petty and uncooperative mood. Rather than play along, she crosses her arms and sits back in her seat.

After a long, tense moment, Miles sighs. “Julie.”

One of the watchers—a lovely blonde woman—hops off the counter she’s been sitting on and comes over. Jemma steels herself for a blow (Miles looks exactly the type to order others to violence and consider his own hands clean and himself innocent), but all Julie does is pull her to her feet—surprisingly gently, even.

“This way, if you please,” Julie says pleasantly, and steers Jemma out of the kitchen and up the nearby stairs.

(As terrifying as this situation is, the setting adds a touch of surrealism that keeps catching Jemma off-guard. If she’d been warned she was going to be kidnapped today, she would have expected to find herself in an abandoned warehouse or a grimy basement, something appropriately dirty and frightening. She certainly never would’ve predicted the large suburban home she’s ended up in.)

The room Julie leads her to has obviously been prepared specifically for the purpose of holding unwilling guests. There are several deadbolts on the outside of the door, and the view out the large picture window on the far wall is spoiled by the bars on it.

“Here we are,” Julie says cheerfully. “Make yourself at home, my lady—and do let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“My lady?” Jemma echoes, surprised both by the title (which she has no claim at all to) and its use, here in a house of traitors—but Julie simply smiles and departs.

The depressing number of _thunk_ s as the deadbolts are thrown reinforces the message Jemma imagines she’s meant to be getting here: that there will be no escape, that her surrender is inevitable, and that she _will_ come to see their wisdom and agree to kill Grant.

“Bugger _that_ ,” Jemma says to herself, and sets to looking for a way out.

 

+++

 

The bars on the window are very solid, there’s an unfortunate lack of handy chemicals in the attached bathroom, and nearly an hour of fruitless attempts prove that picking a lock is much more difficult than films would have one believe.

That determined, Jemma supposes the only thing for it is a more direct approach.

On either side of the queen-sized bed is a night table with a decorative glass lamp. They’re beautiful and fragile but, she discovers when she picks one up, deceptively heavy. She has to crawl under the bed to unplug them, but once that’s accomplished, she’s left with two fairly decent weapons.

After that, all there is to do is wait.

She’s counting on Miles’ delusions of civility to ensure that she’s treated well—complete, one hopes, with regular meals—and sure enough, only a few hours after she was first locked in, there’s a tap at the door.

“Jemma?” a man calls. Not Miles, which is a bit disappointing. “I’ve brought you some food.”

Rather than answer, Jemma moves as quietly as she can to position herself where the door will hide her as it opens. The lamp is heavy in her hands—heavy enough that she fears it will slip out of her sweating palms. She hugs it close.

“Jemma?” the man calls again.

“Probably hiding,” someone else says, muffled. “You know these royalists—bunch of soft cowards. Just leave it on the floor; she’ll crawl out to eat eventually.”

Jemma scowls fiercely at the carpet. She’ll show them _soft_ —not that hiding would be at all an unreasonable reaction for a woman who’s been _kidnapped and locked in a bedroom_.

She takes a deep but quiet breath as the locks begin to click, steeling herself to act but not _react_. The lamp is heavy and might—will _hopefully_ —cause real damage to whomever she strikes with it. She can’t allow herself to be distracted or even _moved_ by any injury she causes.

It’s not just her own well-being that depends upon successful escape, after all. These people want to kill Grant and overthrow the monarchy—and as beloved as the institution as a whole and Grant in particular are, there’s no denying that such an attempt (whether successful or not) would kick off a war.

She _has_ to escape and warn Grant, no matter what it takes.

Holding tight to that conviction—and the lamp—she waits as a man holding a tray of food enters the room. This bit could get tricky…but no, it appears luck is finally with her, as he aims for the little table near the window rather than just depositing the tray on the floor.

It leaves her plenty of space to slip around the door and out into the corridor, where the other man, the one who called her a coward, is leaning against the wall, doing something on his mobile.

_No matter what it takes_ , Jemma reminds herself, and shatters the lamp against the side of his head.

It’s dreadfully loud—more so for the cry he lets out as he falls—but the pounding of Jemma’s heart is surely louder. She whirls back around to slam the door to her former cell and throws two of the locks, trapping the man with the food inside. Then she scoops up the fallen (and bleeding, bleeding _horribly_ , oh Lord) man’s mobile and runs.

She noted a heavy vase holding flowers on a hall table near the top of the stairs as Julie was leading her to her cell earlier, and it’s that she aims for first. In her fright, she wastes precious seconds trying to lift the smooth, heavy vase while still holding the stolen mobile—something her trembling hands certainly don’t help.

The man she locked in her cell is shouting, calling for the others. She’ll be caught any moment for sure.

No. No, she _can’t_ be caught. She _must_ escape.

“Hey! The prisoner’s out!”

Jemma shoves the mobile in her pocket, lifts the vase, and hurls it in the face of a woman halfway up the stairs. It sends her tumbling backwards, and she lands at the bottom with a troubling _crack_.

Tears blurring her vision, Jemma takes the steps two at a time and—in an act she can only attribute to adrenaline—leaps right over the prone woman. A man comes running out of a hall on the other side of the entry foyer, and left without a weapon, all Jemma can do is dodge him.

The front door is _right there_.

Expecting at any moment to be grabbed, she lunges for it. Panic has her grip slipping on the doorknob—she sobs breathlessly—but she gets it on the second try. Then she’s out, out and running across the front lawn, chased by voices but no actual pursuers.

Because they’re in the middle of a neighborhood, she realizes with giddy relief. It might be nothing at all for them to recapture her and drag her back into the house by force, but they couldn’t do so without arousing the neighbors’ suspicion.

She’s safe.

Even so, Jemma doesn’t stop. She runs until her lungs and legs burn, until black spots dance in her vision and her heart’s pounding is too hard to ignore. She can’t shake the feeling that there could be rebels in any of these houses, that danger lurks behind colorful gardens and cheery welcome mats.

When she finally stops, it’s not because she wants to. It’s because she trips—stumbles over a raised bit of sidewalk and falls. She hits the concrete with such force that her teeth rattle, and she might actually skid a bit—she certainly had the momentum for it.

Either way, she’s down, braced on her hands and knees, panting for breath and wishing for the strength to keep running. She doesn’t have it, though—doesn’t think she even has the strength to stand.

She’s crying, she realizes, and doesn’t know if it’s from pain or terror or both.

“Oh, honey!” someone calls. A woman—her voice is sweet and concerned and harmless, and yet Jemma finds herself cringing away from the sound of feet approaching across the nearby grass. “That was a heck of a fall! Are you oka—”

The woman breaks off into a gasp as Jemma dares to look up at her, and for a moment, she fears that this _is_ a rebel, that she’s about to be put back in another cell and likely killed for the trouble she’s caused and their coup will go on without a warning to Grant and then he will die and then _thousands_ will die—

But the kindly-looking, elderly woman only says, “Oh goodness, oh my goodness, my lady! You poor thing! Let me help you up—Aaron! Aaron, call the police! It’s the king’s lady, she’s here!—there we go, you’re all right, aren’t you?”

Somehow, without quite knowing how, Jemma finds herself in the woman’s—“Call me Addie, my lady, everyone does”—kitchen, having her hands and knees (all terribly skinned from her fall) tended from an old, yellowing first aid kit.

When she finally gathers herself enough to speak, “I’m not—I’m not a lady,” is the first thing that comes out.

Addie gives her the knowing sort of look that only a mother can manage. Jemma feels a fierce pang of longing for her own.

“Maybe not by birth,” Addie says. “But I’ve seen the way his Majesty looks at you, my lady. It’s only a matter of time.”

Jemma has no idea how to react to such a statement, so it’s just as well that she doesn’t get the chance.

“Here you go, my lady,” Aaron—Addie’s son—says, setting a cup of tea in front of her. “The police are on their way.” He gives her a wry little smile. “And possibly the army.”

“Caused a kerfuffle, didn’t you?” Addie asks. “No surprise there.”

“Your abduction’s been all over the news,” Aaron tells Jemma, perhaps seeing her confusion. “They say the king is furious.”

Jemma’s sure he is—furious and worried. Her heart clenches for how he must have felt, knowing she was in danger and unable to help her. He may be king now, but Grant started as a soldier—he’s a man of action, and it doesn’t suit him to sit idly by. She’s seen his helpless fury at news of an ambush on the border; how much worse was it, hearing of danger to his own girlfriend in his own city?

But speaking of danger…there’s a matter Jemma hasn’t allowed herself to even _think_ , in all the hours of her captivity and escape, for fear the wondering would drive her mad. Here in safety, however, with a potential source of answers at hand…

“The news,” she says. “Did the reports happen to say—I have guards. They tried to protect me, but they were overwhelmed. Do you know—are they—?”

Addie’s face is answer enough. Her “I’m so sorry, my lady” is entirely superfluous.

Distraught, overwhelmed, and aching from head to heart, Jemma simply can’t help it. She puts her face in her heavily bandaged hands and cries.

 

+++

 

Though she never got around to finding out exactly where they are, they must not be terribly far from the city; after her cry, Jemma has time only to wash her face and take a single sip of her now-cold tea before the squealing of brakes announce the arrival of several vehicles.

Terror freezes her in place—what if it’s Miles and his lot, come to recapture her?—and she can’t find her voice to warn Aaron to be careful as he goes to open the door. If it _is_ Miles, she’s just got Addie and Aaron both killed, murdered like her poor guards—like Veronica and Ethan and Annika and George.

Her heart races and her hands tremble—

—and then like the clouds parting to reveal the sun after weeks of rain, Grant sweeps into the kitchen, and her whole world brightens.

“Jemma,” he breathes, and then she’s in his arms, sobbing into his shirt as his hand rubs a soothing path up and down her spine. “I’ve got you, baby, it’s okay.”

It’s just as well she had her little crying fit earlier, she supposes, as it means she hasn’t many tears left. It’s not long at all before she can lift her head and wipe her eyes and tell Grant the most important thing.

“They were rebels,” she says, and doesn’t quail from the way his face darkens. “They wanted me to—to assassinate you so they could launch a coup.”

Grant’s jaw ticks. “Did they.”

“I said no,” she adds, and surprises a laugh out of him.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. His lightness doesn’t last long, however; as his hand comes up to trace the edge of the throbbing that’s likely to become a bruise where her cheek met the cabinet, his face darkens once more. “Is this the worst of it?”

Jemma takes a moment to consider herself and finds, to her surprise, that her knees are in quite a lot of pain.

“From them, yes,” she says. “But I—I fell outside.” She holds up her hands to display the (slightly excessive; Addie is kind and well-meaning but plainly not a doctor) bandaging, and then nods to the similar bandaging on her knees—easily visible thanks to her torn jeans. “I might have hurt my knees.”

Grant frowns down at her knees—or perhaps just the blood on her jeans.

“We’ll get you checked out,” he promises, and then turns to face Addie and Aaron, who are…being charmed by Hicks?

Jemma hadn’t even noticed that anyone other than Grant was in the kitchen, but looking around now, she sees that a good half of his personal guard surrounds them. Ortilla is planted in the doorway to the rest of the house like a stubborn oak, ready (she presumes) to disable with great prejudice anyone who might approach, while Markham and Warrington are guarding the back door.

Evie, Grant’s personal assistant, is hanging back, tapping at her tablet, and Jemma amuses herself for a moment imagining what notes she might be making. _Death to all rebels_ , certainly, and hopefully _new jeans for Jemma_ , but perhaps also _moisturizer so the king doesn’t get wrinkles from all the scowling_ and _professional cleaners to repair the damage the king’s guard has done, tracking mud all over this nice kitchen_.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Baker,” Grant is saying when Jemma shakes off her imaginings. “If there’s anything I can do for you—”

“Oh—oh no, Your Majesty, not at all,” Addie says, looking quite awed. “No, we’re—we’re just glad your lady’s all right.”

“Thanks to you,” Jemma says, and limps—now that she’s taken note of the pain, her knees are truly in agony—across the kitchen to hug her. “Thank you, Addie. You’ve been very kind.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” Addie repeats, and cups Jemma’s unbruised cheek. “You take care now, my lady.”

“I will,” she promises. “Thank you—and thank _you_ , Aaron.”

Endearingly, he blushes. “It was our pleasure, my lady.”

Thanks distributed—and hopefully one of Evie’s notes is about rewarding Addie and Aaron—they’re free to leave, but Grant hesitates.

“You’re limping,” he observes, frowning. “You want me to carry you?”

Jemma thinks of the squealing brakes that announced his arrival, the attention he draws wherever he goes, and the likelihood that several of Addie’s neighbors are pressed to their windows, waiting to see what happens next.

Then she remembers that she’s had a bloody long day and decides she shouldn’t suffer if she doesn’t have to. Bugger the camera phones and the likelihood that a picture of Grant carrying her will make the evening news. A picture of Grant _standing next to_ her makes the evening news.

“Yes, please,” she says.

Being carried by Grant isn’t precisely comfortable—it puts unbearable pressure on her knees, after all—but it’s certainly comfort _ing_. She rests her head against his, breathing in the smell of cologne and gunpowder (he must have passed his hours of worry at the palace’s range) and enjoying the knowledge that she’s safe.

She’s safe and Grant has been warned. Everything will be fine.

Ortilla and Warrington precede them out of the house, with Markham and Hicks bringing up the rear, and once they’re outside, a whole phalanx of soldiers bearing Grant’s crest fall in around them for the short walk across the lawn.

What a production—but for once, Jemma finds she’s grateful for it, for the armored vehicles and police cars that surround Grant’s limo. She’s always been annoyed by the fuss of protective details and preventative measures, seeing only the inconvenience and not the need. Today has been a very harsh lesson.

(She thinks of Veronica chiding her for trying to leave her apartment alone, of Ethan’s wise _you’ll thank us one day_ , and has to take several deep breaths to keep from crying again.)

Ortilla opens the limo door for them with an ostentatious bow and an obsequious “Your Majesty, Your Ladyship.”

“Don’t you start,” Jemma orders—though she’s afraid her attempt to look stern is rather spoiled by the way the teasing has lightened her heart. “You know my name; use it.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t, my lady,” he teases as Grant settles her in the limo.

“Yes, you could,” she says, “ _Luis_.”

He gives an exaggerated wince. “Okay, okay, you win.” Following Grant in as Jemma slides along the seat to make room, he adds, “You know your lady don’t play fair?”

“I do know,” Grant says mildly, and then lifts Jemma’s hand to kiss her knuckles. “You want something for the pain, Jem?”

“Yes, please,” she says, and gratefully accepts the packet of aspirin that Evie produces from her purse.

“It’s a bit of a drive to the airport, so just let me know if you need to stop,” Grant adds, checking his watch. “Evie, get a doctor waiting for us.”

“Already arranged,” Evie assures him, in a bland tone that nonetheless communicates her offense that he thought he needed to ask.

“The airport?” Jemma asks, surprised. “Just how far are we from the city?”

“Two thousand miles,” Ortilla volunteers. “Ish.”

Shaking off her unease at the realization that she must have been unconscious for longer than she thought, she frowns. “But you lot got here so quickly.”

“We were already on our way,” Grant tells her, even as he presses a bottle of water into her hands. “Take the pills.”

Because she truly is hurting, she does so, and then—painfully—lifts her feet to rest them on the seat opposite her. Whether her knees are badly injured or not, elevating them can’t hurt.

“How, though?” she asks.

At a slight motion from Grant, Warrington leans over to raise the barrier between the cabin and the driver. Once it’s up, Grant settles back in his seat and wraps his arm around Jemma’s shoulders.

“While the rebels had you,” he says, “did you see any blonde women?”

“Any beautiful but terrifying blonde women,” Hicks corrects.

“She probably flirted with you,” is Warrington’s contribution.

“Well, yes,” Jemma says, thinking of Julie—the tone in which she called Jemma “my lady” could certainly be deemed flirtatious. “Did she…contact you?”

“You could say that,” Grant says. His thumb rubs a little soothing pattern on her shoulder. “That was Aldridge.”

She had started to slump into his side, but at that, Jemma straightens. “ _Candice_ Aldridge?”

An oft-mentioned but never seen member of Grant’s personal guard, all Jemma has ever heard of Aldridge was that she was off on Grant’s business, tending to delicate matters.

“That’s the one,” he agrees. “She’s one of several knights I have undercover with various rebel groups, keeping an eye on their activities.”

To her own surprise, she’s at a loss for words. “I…what?”

“Some of the rebel groups are harmless,” he says. “Just a bunch of malcontents meeting up to complain about me. Others, not so much. But I can’t do anything about it until they actually _try_ something—nothing illegal about having an opinion, however treasonous that opinion might be. My knights keep an eye on things, let me know if and when the groups they’re assigned to cross the line into prosecutable behavior.”

Jemma’s breath catches. “So Aldridge…warned you that I would be kidnapped?”

“No,” Grant says, fierce and sharp—and then, deliberately softer, “No, baby. If I’d known what they were planning…”

He trails off, jaw tight.

“Aldridge didn’t know until after the fact,” Ortilla says after a moment. “She raised the alarm when you showed up at their HQ.”

“I see,” Jemma says, and finally rests her head on Grant’s shoulder. “I suppose I didn’t truly need to escape, then.”

She feels a bit embarrassed at the thought—it would’ve been easier, surely, for Grant to storm that house with all of his soldiers and take Miles and his people in at the same time they rescued her. What a fuss she must have caused, and all for nothing.

Grant’s arm tightens around her shoulders. “Yes, you did.”

“Aldridge managed to talk them down from hurting you right away,” Hicks says seriously, “but apparently the ringleader was the impatient type. If you’d stayed—”

“You got away, and that’s what matters,” Grant interrupts, in a very final tone. “And hey, I’m impressed. Taking out three enemy combatants and running six miles—not bad for a nerd.”

If she weren’t so comfortable cuddled into his side, Jemma would elbow him for that. As it is, she contents herself with a pinch to his thigh. “Rude.”

“You did good,” Grant says, more gently. His arm tightens around her shoulders, and when he continues, he does so softly, keeping the words for Jemma and Jemma alone. “And you’re safe now, okay? No one is ever gonna touch you again. I promise.”

It’s not a promise he can make, not really…but it makes her feel better anyway, and so she chooses to let it lie.

“She helped me escape, didn’t she?” Jemma realizes. “Aldridge. There was quite a bit of shouting, but hardly anyone tried to stop me leaving.”

Aside from the poor woman she sent backwards down the stairs, that is (she ruthlessly suppresses the memory of the _crack_ of her landing), and the man who was _right there_ and yet somehow entirely failed to prevent her from reaching the front door. Aldridge must have been there and intervened—in a way that didn’t give her away, Jemma hopes.

“She said she kept them distracted,” he agrees. “But you got out all on your own—she was very clear on that.”

“ _Very_ clear,” Hicks stresses. “You might have competition there, Your Majesty.”

“I think I can take Aldridge,” he says calmly.

Ortilla pulls a face as though he doesn’t entirely agree. Warrington and Markham roll their eyes in concert, which is truly something to see.

Abruptly, the talk of Jemma’s escape reminds her that she’s still carrying the one man’s mobile. She never did get the chance to use it, thanks to Addie’s kindness, but there may well be important information on it.

“Here,” she says, leaning further into Grant that she might draw it from her pocket. “I took this from one of them.”

Grant kisses her hair and passes the mobile down to Markham, who accepts it with pleasure.

“Like I said,” Grant murmurs, “not bad for a nerd.”

She doesn’t bother to pinch him again. The adrenaline that sustained her through her flight from Miles’ house is well and truly gone and exhaustion has replaced it; she thinks she might nap until they reach the airport.

As she drifts off to sleep, she feels Grant press another kiss to her hair.

“No one will ever touch you again,” he promises once more. “I’ll kill them all first.”

**Author's Note:**

> There _might_ be more after this...I have some thoughts on fallout! But who knows, really; it's always a toss-up with my muse. For now, this is it. Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
